The Question

That night in your old car,
the bench seat ideal
for our closeness,
the summer warm,
humid enough to beat
the air conditioner
into a whine
of futility and sweat
I asked you
what you wanted to do
in life.

I didn't understand
your hesitation,
that painful look of
desperation,
the thick defeat
that came between us
when I asked.

You looked at me
as if everything was over,
as if your being
was about to slowly smother
in helpless twist
of hopeless spiral
choking off the future,

and when I pressed you
for an answer
your hesitation
filled me with foreboding
at what you were
about to say.

You said
"I want to be a Nurse's Aide,"
so quietly,
and I saw bleak resignation
in your lovely face,
so I held on tight and said:
"Then let's find out
when you can start,
Okay?"

And your tears told me
you knew then that
I would not say no,
that I would never
build a barrier
between my love for you
and your future
the way the one
before me did.